


Technicolor Yawn

by emetsketeers



Series: literally just puke [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emetophilia, M/M, puke, puking as art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 00:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5395091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emetsketeers/pseuds/emetsketeers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos pukes the rainbow. Literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Technicolor Yawn

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for my recent absence... I know, I know, without me the fandom is so tragically short of pukey fics. (Although not really. Have you noticed how many "regular" fics see the boys throwing up? Just saying.) Anyway... have a long(-ish) one :D

Green is an accident.

Porthos sleeps through his Monday alarm, does not eat breakfast, is late to work, works through lunch. Comes home to remember how desperately they need to go grocery shopping.

There’s not much in the fridge besides a giant bag of baby spinach (more Aramis’ thing than his) but it will have to do. He slices the last pepper into it, finds a handful of walnuts to add, and scarfs it down eagerly.

It’s been in his stomach maybe ten minutes when he remembers the wise old adage:

_Do not eat a massive salad on an empty stomach, you wanker._

It’s gurgling. His stomach is honestly _gurgling_.

It’s coming out one way or the other, he knows, and if he lets nature take its course the spinach will take the back exit sooner rather than later. He’s rather that not happen, and so action is required. Which is how he finds himself on his knees in front of the toilet, full of spinach and three hastily gulped glasses of water, with his toothbrush down his throat, wondering where his spinach-loving emetophile boyfriend has got to. This would be some sort of treat for him, but Porthos isn’t waiting.

He’s not actually feeling nauseous, just really, really overloaded on roughage, but he’s got a pretty good gag reflex (is not sure Aramis would love him as much if he didn’t) so it’s not a terribly long process. He shoves the toothbrush down his throat and rubs the bristles gently, then feels the familiar blossoming heat curl up from his stomach.

He gags, retches loudly. Nothing makes it as far as the toilet but suddenly there’s an actual spinach leaf in his throat, which he manages to cough up. The coughing helps, and with one last thrust he vomits hugely, spewing the salad into the toilet bowl with a satisfying splash. He spits, jostles his belly a little, just to work it up, then coaxes up another massive surge.

It’s over just as quickly as it began, and Porthos spits again and leans back a little before opening his eyes.

Then he bursts out laughing.

It’s green. His puke is literally, vividly green.

He’s still laughing when Aramis finds him a few minutes later.

“You threw up without me,” he whines, stooping down to peck Porthos’ lips.

“Mm. Sorry.”

“And you… ate my spinach?”

“Sorry,” Porthos says again, though he honestly isn’t.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m just… wow. That’s green, babe. It looks like you threw up the green section of a crayon factory.”

“Do they really organize them in sections?”

“Shush. Wow. I’m reevaluating my life right now. I thought brown was my favorite color, you know, but that’s… incredibly sexy.”

“Then can this incredibly sexy man request that we order some take-in tonight?” Porthos asks, pushing himself to his feet and accepting a deeper kiss from Aramis. He goes to the sink to brush his teeth. “Pizza, maybe? But nothing with veg.”

But Aramis does not respond, still staring down at the unflushed puke.

“Please tell me I ain’t created a monster,” Porthos sighs. “Shit scratched like fuck comin’ back up.”

*

Yellow is not quite an accident. Porthos thinks for days about how happy Aramis was with his green puke, how lustfully he smiled and how greedily they fucked, and he has to admit that it felt oddly clean to see such a bright color in the toilet bowl. He loves the thought of churned-up puke. Loves knowing how hot and slimy and nasty his food gets once it’s been sitting there long enough, but this feels different somehow. Creative, almost. In the primal sense. It makes him feel good about himself in a way he doesn’t totally understand.

So that Friday he fasts again. And on the way home from work, light-headed with lust and hunger, he stops by the wine shop and picks up the biggest, cheapest bottle of Sauvignon Blanc he can find, as well as some red wine for Aramis.

He’d thought about just puking up water, which seems beautifully pure, but also a little boring. Still he wants his puke to be clear, liquid, and the lovely pale gold of the Sauvignon is a temptation he can’t resist.

He wants it in him. He wants it to burst out of him.

He doesn’t eat dinner, but sits with Aramis while he does, draining his wine dutifully. Aramis must know it will be coming back up, but doesn’t ask, just kisses Porthos now and again, and rubs at his belly.

Porthos ends up drunk faster than he might have expected. His tolerance is high as a rule, but to suck back over a liter of wine on an empty stomach is not a trivial thing. They’re lying on the couch together, Porthos giggling at the spinning of the world, when the first wave of nausea hits.

He bolts upright, clapping a hand to his mouth. Aramis trails him close as he lurches down the hallway, head spinning, and drops down to the toilet just in time.

The gush is massive, a veritable waterfall, nothing but wine and stomach acid and for a moment Porthos forgets about his plan. He feels really sick now… really sick. He must whimper or something, because Aramis, rather than kissing him, kneels down beside him and presses gentle hands to his belly.

“It’s okay, love,” he murmurs. “Bring it up. Get it all up for me. You’ll feel so much better, love. So much.”

Porthos nods. Feeling better sounds nice, because the truth is he feels really terrible right now, heartburny in the worst way and so dizzy he worries he’ll miss the toilet.

He doesn’t. Aramis guides him forward, massages his belly as he vomits up another surge of wine, then another and another, then holds him through the shivers as he slowly, slowly comes down.

When he’s clear-headed enough to look into the toilet bowl, though, he feels nothing but pride… and a little surprise. Combined with the acid from his stomach, the platinum wine is a clear, gorgeous yellow, not quite daffodil-colored but possibly like the petals of an August sunflower. It’s liquid, too, nothing but bubbly froth, and Porthos chokes on a sob of happiness and collapses back against Aramis.

“Babe,” Aramis whispers. “If you’re on a mission to puke the rainbow, I _fully_ endorse it.”

*

Red is not an accident. At all. It’s a carton of strawberries and a bottle of cranberry juice and a wheedling little smile on his boyfriend’s face.

He doesn’t take much convincing.

Despite the intensity of the sex they’ve had after his green and yellow pukes, this hardly feels like foreplay anymore. It feels like something new. Not to mention the fact that he honestly really likes strawberries, and is quite contented to down the whole carton of them. He hasn’t fasted today but lunch was a long time ago (and was very tomato-y, besides).

It almost seems a shame to puke up such beautiful little berries, but when Aramis passes him the cranberry juice and he begins to chug it, the familiar headiness takes over and he can think of nothing but the moment he’ll crouch down before the toilet and _spew_.

The last of the cranberry juice disappears, leaving a clean sort of bitterness on his tongue. He’s nauseous, to be sure, but not eruptively so; they wander into the kitchen, where Porthos finds and eats a raspberry jelly, and Aramis pours him a glass of wine.

The wine is probably what does it, since red never really sits right with him. Not half a minute with the glass in his stomach and the taste on his tongue he knows he’s about to blow, and takes Aramis by the hand and races down the hallway.

Aramis kisses him as they both kneel beside the toilet, and he gags, accidentally, into his mouth. Aramis giggles, and pushes him into alignment, and then it’s only a few good deep heaves before wine and jelly and juice and berries spill out of him in a gorgeous, ruby tide. The sharpness of his stomach acid combined with the taste of cranberry juice is earthy and complex.

“More?” Aramis prompts, and when Porthos nods, asks, “may I?”

He nods again, and then Aramis’ hand is at his lips and Aramis’ fingers are sliding down his throat, working him, working him, until he stutters up another gag and then vomits again.

He’s done, he can feel, and together they admire the product of his emesis. It’s not one clear color this time, maybe because of the bits of lunch still in his stomach, but instead is a collage of scarlet and garnet and rose that blends together into a glowing crimson when his eyes cross, and Porthos feels like art itself.

*

Blue is maybe less of a celestial thing. “Don’t eat,” Aramis whispers, one morning, as they prepare for work, and Porthos daydreams the whole day about what color he’ll be vomiting tonight. He texts Aramis, begging for hints, but gets none. He beats Aramis home and wanders the kitchen, looking for clues.

When Aramis gets home, though, he’s a little underwhelmed at the sight of two 6-packs of blue jelly, and a giant blue slushie, the kind that has always given him awful brain freeze.

“What?” Aramis asks, shrugging, as he unloads the ‘groceries’. “I didn’t figure you’d want to skip one just because it’s all horribly artificial. Besides. Haven’t you ever seen _Juno_?”

Porthos hasn’t. He shakes his head.

Still he can’t say no to Aramis, and slurps down all the jellys obediently. The slushie, though, is a different kind of hell. Moments of brain freeze meld together into an awful, persistent headache, and not halfway through he begins to shiver violently.

“Love,” Aramis murmurs, when he sees this, “you don’t have to. Really. Want to fuck it all and take a bath?”

“I’m not digesting all this shit,” Porthos rasps, and to prove his point takes another gulp of slushie. His stomach hurts a little, but not in a pukey way… more in a ‘what are you doing to me’ way.

He stands, without a word, and takes his slushie to the bathroom.

Aramis trots after, looking slightly grieved; Porthos flops down in front of the toilet and gulps the slushie with determination. His throat is so cold he wonders if he’ll even be able to gag himself. His stomach is really upset now, but still not nauseous.

He gets up on his knees and leans over the toilet, deciding on one of Aramis’ favorite methods. Sucking in a gulp of air, he makes himself belch, loudly. The shock of it rocks the contents of his belly. The hair on his arms is fully on edge, and Aramis strokes it lightly as he makes himself burp again and again until finally a little spit-up of blue dribbles into the toilet. So. It’s going to be this kind of a vomit, huh?

Numb throat or no, he resorts to his finger, and brings up a few more little spurts this way, each tasting even less like ‘wild berry’ than they did going down. It just isn’t enough, though. He’s not _puking_ , he’s just making himself gag.

Sensing his frustration, Aramis goes to the tap and draws him a glass of water. It doesn’t go down smooth… in fact he burps into it a little. But it finally seems to start things off. Porthos pushes to his feet, needing gravity like he needs any other help he can get and finally, finally, his stomach contracts and he throws up blue, blue, blue, and Porthos finally understands how cold can burn because the slushie isn’t even totally melted and still it is fire in his throat.

One massive stream does it. He wobbles, and Aramis helps him go down to his knees. They kneel there, Porthos shivering spasmodically.

“Your lips are really blue,” Aramis murmurs, and kisses them.

“That m-might be h-hypothermia,” Porthos chatters, but then Aramis is plugging the tub and turning on the hot tap, then stripping him and helping him into the water, which makes him shiver worse, but in a good way.

“I’m sorry,” Aramis chirps. “Blue’s not a repeat, then.”

“Blue’s not a r-repeat,” Porthos confirms.

“You should see this, though. It’s not a horrible color. It’s eased up, a little. Like a summer sky.”

“Take a p-picture for me,” Porthos replies, because there’s no way in hell he’s getting out of the warm water any time soon. Aramis, being Aramis, pulls out his phone and takes one.

*

Orange is next, because even though they aren’t going in order Porthos wants purple to be last. Plus so many lovely foods are so very orange, and Porthos wants the feeling of cleanness again, the sensation of utter harmony that somehow comes from puking in technicolor.

Aramis brings him cantaloupe and peaches and clementines and carrot juice (not too chilled) and he feels at ease when he looks at them.

Aramis himself is looking up at Porthos, almost shyly. “Can I join you?” he asks, a little breathlessly, and Porthos kisses him in response.

They undress. They feed each other juicy fruits, kiss with sticky lips, and when their bellies feel close to bursting they pour glasses of carrot juice and down them in rapid gulps.

“Mm, beta carotene,” Aramis jokes, which breaks the mood a little, but Porthos doesn’t care because it makes them both laugh and he’s so happy and giggly and suddenly nauseous that nothing in the world can go wrong now.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Shit yeah,” Aramis replies, and they lead each other to the bathroom.

Seeing the toilet prompts some sort of Pavlovian reaction this time, and before Porthos can even think, before he can kneel or ask Aramis if he’d like to go first, he’s vomiting, uncontrollably, bent in two over the bowl and purging so hard he sees stars. When the first wave is over he falls to his knees. He grips the sides of the toilet with both hands and lets the second surge come over him, puking and puking and puking until the whole world is orange.

Panting, he falls back, glances at Aramis.

Ever the voyeur, he’s held his own stomach back long enough to watch; now that Porthos is finished he laughs, turns, and projectile vomits orange all over the shower wall once, twice, three times.

When it’s over they slump together on the cool tile of the floor.

“Yours is oranger than mine,” Aramis rasps, regarding Porthos fondly.

“Jealous?”

“Nope. You’re the artist. Always have been.”

“Well, I have a lovely assistant.”

*

Purple doesn’t happen for a few weeks. It’s last, and although of course they can recreate any of them that they want (not blue!) it still feels like the end of something.

Despite this, they don’t really plan it. It goes like this:

Porthos finds himself on the bathroom floor, emptying his stomach not on purpose but because he’s actually feeling sick. This doesn’t happen often. He can’t say he likes it very much; Aramis himself loves the feeling of actual, necessary vomiting, but Porthos likes a say in things, thanks. So he’s a little miserable, cross-legged in front of the toilet, contemplating the world. He’s empty but still overcome by that familiar urge. He wants to throw up something but he’s got nothing left to throw up. It’s a little bit miserable. He feels sweaty and sticky and off-kilter.

That’s when Aramis kneels down beside him, presses a kiss to his forehead. “Do you want to?” he asks, quietly. “You don’t have to. I only thought it might cheer you up.”

Porthos looks down at Aramis’ hands. In one is a carton of blackberries, in the other, a bottle of grape juice.

“Oh god,” he rasps. “Yeah. I want to.”

He gets down a handful of the blackberries before a little bit crawls back up his throat; he switches to the juice then, gulping hard to make the berries stay down. His stomach is so empty that he seems to feel every drop.

He doesn’t even finish the whole bottle before everything inside him starts moving again, like a train engine roaring to life, and Aramis rubs his back as he rears up over the toilet and is sick, again and again and again, frothy grape waves that are such a fucking _relief_ he nearly cries.

At long last he falls back, to the floor. Aramis is waiting with a damp hand towel to wipe down his mouth, and kiss him all over his face, very very gently.

“Look, babe,” he urges, when Porthos opens his eyes. Porthos does.

His puke is not what those damn crayon people might think of purple. It’s not the color of lavender blossoms or amethysts or even Barney. Instead it is a deep, velvety, night-sky purple, nearly black in the shadows, and Porthos sighs and leans against Aramis. His insides can’t be all that bad off if they can work up something like this.

“Gorgeous,” Aramis whispers. “Think you could sleep for a little?”

Porthos nods. He feels better… he feels _great_.

*

 

When he wakes a few hours later, his stomach feels fine. He himself still feels a little weak, and incredibly tired, but also fine, when it comes down to it. Better still when Aramis wanders in a few minutes later, laptop in hand.

“Made you something,” he comments, joining Porthos in bed.

“A mac,” Porthos rasps. “You shouldn’t have.”

“A tribute,” Aramis corrects, then opens his screen, pulls up an app, and hands the laptop over.

Porthos stares.

It’s half Warhol, half Instagram collage: a 2x3 matrix of six white toilet bowls, each full of vivid puke. On the top row: spinach green, wine yellow, strawberry red; on the bottom, slushie blue, carrot orange, blackberry purple.

“I thought about putting it in rainbow order,” Aramis notes. “But I liked it this way better.”

“You took pictures of all of them?”

“Of course.”

“And you didn’t…?”

“Edit them? Nope. Only to put them together. All that color, that’s _you_ , love.”

Porthos feels stupidly overwhelmed, considering that he’s looking at the photographic evidence of six times he’s thrown up… but it’s more than that. He hums happily.

“Did I call you an artist?” Aramis laughs, leaning over to kiss him. “I mean you’re a masterpiece, babe. A fucking masterpiece.”


End file.
